"As he approached the town gate, a dead person was being carried out-the only son of his mother, and she was a widow. And a large crowd from the town was with her. When the Lord saw her, his heart went out to her and he said 'Don't cry'. Luke 7: 12-13 (NIV)
The pain of death is a pain like no other. It is a searing, hot pain, like you might get from a branding iron, or from spilling a pot of scalding water on your soul. If one is not careful, the side effects can harden your heart and turn you permanently into an emotional zombie, causing you to spend the rest of your life in a darkness so thick that you can actually feel the weight of it all around you, as if it were something you could cut with a knife, the blackest darkness you will ever feel.
When the death is of a child, however, the pain of death seems to reach into every cell in your body; it feels as if it has penetrated your very bones and now resides in the marrow. Many people never recover from this horrific violation of the natural order of things. Parents are not supposed to have to bury their children, children are supposed to bury their parents. This cruel and terrifying reversal is what makes the pain of losing a child so intense. As a father who held his daughter as her life slipped away, I understand some of what the Israeli mother was feeling.
In her case, however, she had already lost her husband and had just lost her only son. Because of Jewish tradition at that time, she was losing her closest male relative, vitally important to provide for her and her daughters economically and physically, protecting them from others who prey on vulnerable girls and women. She would be forced to marry her husband’s brother, if there was one, and hope that he did not have any malevolent intent toward her or her daughters.
Her son was dead, and had been dead for a while; the Bible makes that quite clear. In fact, the funeral procession had already started. The rueful, pained cries of the mother and her friends pierced the air as they marched toward the burial site. Much like we hear the fire truck long before we see it, the anguished cries could be heard long before the funeral procession appeared.
Yet, even as the familiar funeral rituals had begun, even as Death gloated thinking it had claimed yet another victim, the Master had other plans. This mother’s son was not going to be taken from her. The Creator of Life had arrived at the outskirts of the village, and Jehovah had already decided to restore it to Death’s latest victim.
Please check back tomorrow for Raising the Dead: Part II.
Copyright 2007 Timothy E. Davis